Vampires: The Recent Undead (25 page)

Even if they can’t feed on me, they can still kill me, which is fair in its way, because we’ve killed as many of them as we could.

What is that noise? Movement. Something in the room, almost heavy enough to be human. A Bulgarian, maybe; they’re light, not having any bones, they don’t make much noise when they walk,
oh Jesus, it just bumped against the trunk . . .

Silence. Maybe it was just a dog—maybe not even one of their dogs. Or another sort of animal. At least it didn’t sound like rats. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe there was nothing there at all, nothing; maybe I was falling asleep and beginning to dream but I’m not going to open the lid and look out just in case it is one of them and oh Jesus the trunk just moved, it was lifted off the floor—

I stay quiet. If it opens the trunk, I’ll try to get away. I have a cross, but they’re not all scared of crosses, either, or garlic, or mirrors, or roses, or anything else we’ve been able to find. We tried staying in a church once, in Krakow, and they came in. We stayed in a brothel in Hamburg, mirrors everywhere, and they came in. Maybe I could have found a safer place than this junk shop, but I needed food—canned food, stuff that the rats and roaches haven’t gotten to yet, and I saw this place opposite a supermarket, saw the trunk in the window, and opened it in case there was a vampire inside.

The trunk lurches; I’m being carried . . . somewhere. I didn’t see any canals within walking distance, and the vampires have wrecked anything that could be used as a crematorium. Oh Jesus, what if they bury me alive—I draw a deep breath, slowly, quietly, and try to stay calm, wondering if they can smell fear, like dogs. I try to distract myself by reciting poetry, but all I can think of is bloody Eliot—

I hear laughter, and the trunk is dropped. We haven’t gone far, just around a few corners, halfway around the block maybe, or out behind the shop . . . Something says, in Jack’s voice but not Jack’s voice, if he’s become a Bulgarian then his jaw and his teeth and his larynx must be turning to mush:

“Stay with me.

“Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.

“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?

“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

I’m about to open the lid, but I hear scurrying, tiny claws, a faint sound of chewing . . .

I think we are in rat’s alley, where the dead men lost their bones.

A Gentleman of the Old School

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro’s Count Saint-Germain was the first truly “good guy” romantic vampire. The books and stories of the Saint-Germain Cycle combine historical fiction, romance, and horror and feature the heroic vampire first introduced in
Hôtel Transylvania (1978)
as Le Comte de Saint-Germain. In that first novel, the character—cultured, well-traveled, articulate, elegant, and mysterious—appears in the court of France’s King Louis XV. Since then, Yarbro has presented—in a non-chronological manner and with name variations suitable to language, era, locale, and circumstance—the Count’s life and undeath from 2119 BC and (as the story included here shows) into the twenty-first century. (Roger, the houseman in “A Gentleman of the Old School,” became the vampire’s right-hand ghoul in Rome in AD 71.)
An Embarrassment of Riches
has just been published;
Commedia della Morte
will be the twenty-third novel in the series. (With two short story collections, that makes them numbers twenty-four and twenty-five, respectively, in the Chronicles as a whole.)

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro is the first woman to be named a Living Legend by the International Horror Guild (2006). She was honored in 2009 with a Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award by the Horror Writers Association. Yarbro was named as Grand Master of the World Horror Convention in 2003. She is the recipient of the Fine Foundation Award for Literary Achievement (1993) and (along with Fred Saberhagen) was awarded the Knightly Order of the Brasov Citadel by the Transylvanian Society of Dracula in 1997. She has been nominated for the Edgar, World Fantasy, and Bram Stoker Awards and was the first female president of the Horror Writers Association. The author of scores of novels in many genres, her manuscripts are being archived at Bowling Green University.

“But surely the Count is willing to talk to the press? He’s been very generous, and I would have thought he’d want to make sure people know about it.” The reporter was a crisply attractive woman in her mid-twenties, bristling with high fashion and ambition; she was hot on the scent of a story. She lingered in the door of the somewhat secluded house in an elegant section of Vancouver, a tape recorder in one hand, a small digital camera in the other. “And there is the problem of the murder, isn’t there? The VPMNC audience wants to know.”

The houseman—a lean, middle-aged man with sandy hair and faded-blue eyes, roughly the same height as the reporter: about five-foot seven—remained unfailingly polite. “I am sorry, but my employer has a pronounced dislike of all public attention, even if the intention is benign.” He nodded to the young woman once. “I am sure there are many on the hospital board who will be delighted to give you all the information you seek. As to the murder, you should speak to the police—they will know about it.”

“Everyone’s talked to them, and there’s nothing new to get out of them,” the reporter complained. “Everyone’s looking for a new angle on the case, and the Center was a good place to start. That led me to the Count, and I only found out about the Count through the Donations Administrator’s secretary, and that was over a very expensive lunch.” She frowned. “I was told that the Count only visited the facilities twice: shortly after construction began and just before it was opened: The Vancouver Center for the Diagnosis and Treatment of Blood Disorders. Ms. Saunders said the Count’s donation covered more than seventy percent of the cost of building and equipping the facility, and that he provides an annual grant for on-going research. That’s got to be a lot of money. I was wondering if the Count would care to confirm the amount? Or discuss the body found on the roof of the Center two days ago?”

“Neither is the sort of matter my employer likes to talk about. He is not inclined to have his fortune bruited about, and the investigation of crime is not his area of expertise. He leaves such things to the police and their investigators.” The houseman stepped back, preparing to close the door.

“Then he’s talked to them?” the reporter pursued.

“A crime scene technician named Fisk has asked for various samples from the Count, and he has provided them.” The houseman started to swing the door shut.

“Fisk—the new tech?”

“That was his name. I have no idea if he is new or old to his position. If you will excuse me—” There was less than three inches of opening left.

“I’ll just return, tonight or tomorrow, and I may have some of my colleagues with me: I am not the only one with questions.” This last was a bluff: she was relishing the chance for an exclusive and was not about to give up her advantage to any competition.

“You will receive the same answer whenever you call, Ms. . . . is it Barradis? If you want useful information, I would consult the police, Ms. Barradis.” The houseman lost none of his civility, but he made it clear that he would not change his mind.

“Barendis,” she corrected. “Solange Barendis.”

“Barendis,” the houseman repeated, and firmly closed the door, setting the door-crossing bolt into its locked position before withdrawing from the large entry-hall, bound for the parlor on the west side of the house that gave out on a deck that was added to the house some fifty years before. It had recently been enlarged to make the most of the glorious view afforded down the hill, colored now with the approaching fires of sunset.

The house had been built in 1924 in the Arts and Crafts style, with cedar wainscoting in most of the rooms, and stained glass in the upper panes of many of the windows, all in all, a glorious example of the style, for although it did not appear to be large from the outside, it had three stories, and thirteen rooms, all of generous proportions. The parlor, with its extensive bow windowand the deck beyond provided the appearance of an extension of the room through two wide French doors into the outside, making it one of Roger’s favorite places in all the house. Here he lingered until a beautiful Victorian clock chimed five; then he started toward the stairs that led to the upper floors, to the room on the south side of the second floor, a good-sized chamber that once held a pool table but was now devoted to books. He went along to the library and tapped on the door, opening it as soon as the occupant of the room called out, “Do come in, Roger.”

Roger opened the door and paused on the threshold, watching his employer, who was dressed in black woolen slacks and black cashmere turtleneck, up a rolling ladder where he busied himself shelving books at the tops of the cases. “The reporter was back.” The French he spoke was a in a dialect that had not been heard for more than two centuries.

“Ms. Barendis?” the Count asked. “I’m not surprised to hear it. I’m a little puzzled that she hasn’t brought more press with her, considering.”

“She has threatened to do so. She said she was asking about the Center, but it—”

The Count sighed. “She had another topic in mind, I suspect.”

“You mean the body they found?” Roger knew what the response would be.

“That, and her reporter’s inclination to uncover information that appears to be hidden.”

“Such as the size of your donation to the Blood Center; a legitimate story as well as a workable excuse to talk to you to find out about the murder victim,” said Roger, a bit disgusted. “She asked about the money as well as about the body.”

“I doubt she will pursue the money: it isn’t scandalous enough. The murder is more intriguing than money, since it appears to be one of a series,” said the Count dryly. “Even the Canadians are fascinated by human predators, it would seem.”

“And this young woman is stoking the furnace,” said Roger.

“All the more reason for her to find more combustible fuel to consume—money hasn’t the engrossing power of serial murders, especially such messy ones as this man commits—he is seeking as much gore as he can create,” said the Count. “The murder is scary and exciting—large donations only spur a moment of greed, which is insufficient to hold the audience’s attention.”

“Whatever the public may find interesting, this reporter is proving as persistent as a burr.” Roger came a few steps into the room and flipped on the light-switch, banishing the thickening shadows with the gentle glow of wall-sconces. “She says she’ll be back tomorrow.”

“I would not doubt it,” said the Count, coming down the ladder. “So long as she confines her pursuit to the daytime, she will be nothing more than inconvenient. We have dealt with far worse than she.” As he said the last, he put his foot on the floor.

“She may expand her inquiries,” said Roger, sitting on an upholstered rosewood bench and giving his attention to the end table beside it; he picked up a small ivory carving of Ganesh riding his Rat and moved it to a less vulnerable place on the end table. “I recommended she speak to the police.”

“If they lead her away from me, so much the better,” said the Count, sitting down in a leather recliner. “You know, when we first came here in—was it ’38?—well, after we left California, near the start of the war—I didn’t appreciate what a handy place this would be, or how pleasant. Who could have foreseen the expansion of the Pacific Rim, especially then, as the war was getting under way? This has been a much better investment than the house in Winnipeg.” He reached over and turned on a floor lamp with a frosted tulip motif, banishing the last of the gloom; the shining paneling, along with the array of spines, gave the place a cozy elegance.

“Winter is easier here than in Winnipeg,” Roger observed.

“You have the right of it,” said the Count.

Roger brushed his hand over the embossed leather cover of a book printed in Amsterdam almost five hundred years before. “Do you think you will want to remain here much longer?”

“Perhaps year or two, until the Center is fully established. It will depend somewhat on the state of the world then; I am not in any particular hurry to return to my homeland, not as things are going now. The government has already seized half the money I left for the university I endowed on the pretext of using it for cultural projects: I would just as soon not provide them more occasions for another raid.” He shoved the recliner back, sighing luxuriously as he did so. “These are wonderful inventions.”

“So they are,” Roger agreed, knowing it was prudent not to press the Count about his plans “And it is not difficult to conceal your native earth inside them.”

“Another advantage,” said the Count, and closed his eyes.

“A fifth body,” Solange exclaimed as she stared at her computer screen some twelve days after her second fruitless visit to the Count’s house. “Near the university, this time.” She shoved back from her workstation and stood so she could see over the top of her cubical. “Hey, Baxter! You seen this?”

The night city editor came over to her, his silk regimental tie loosened and his well-cut hair slightly mussed. “Seen what?”

She pointed to the computer screen. “Another one with a cut throat, blood everywhere, and mutilations. Fair-haired, cut short, above average height, on the plumpish side, between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age—a cookie-cutter victim for this guy.” She stamped her foot. “And Hudderston isn’t doing anything! Crime desk—yeah, right!”

“How do you mean?” Baxter asked. “I have his column on the daily report from the police—they say they’ve doubled patrols, and the crimes are getting top priority, the crime scene tech is preparing a new report.”

“Fisk also says the forensics are inconclusive, even though there are pools of blood around the victims, the same thing you can get off the Internet, or on the hourly news spots,” said Solange. “You saw the report on the confusing DNA results—animal blood mixed with human and both contaminated with chemical additives. Any identification they may make from the analysis of the blood, even though it’s accurate, won’t hold up under rigorous cross examination.”